


Bringing Work Home

by KamalasFanfiction



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Costume Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Roleplaying Character, Romance, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamalasFanfiction/pseuds/KamalasFanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You kinda-sorta want to bring Nightwing into your bed. Dick doesn't seem to have a problem with that. </p>
<p>In fact, one could mistake him as <i>eager</i> to keep the mask and suit on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Work Home

It’s nothing new to you- Dick likes victory sex after long missions. You don’t know if it’s the emotional aspect or if he just wants to burn off excess energy, but the way his shoulders jump under your hands lets you know he’s two seconds from pulling off the top half of his suit. He tilts his head, starting to break the kiss, licking your bottom lip as his fingers pull away from your back. 

You know Dick Grayson, so you know what’s coming next. You don’t know what compels you to still his hand, both of your breaths mixed and heavy. He hums, raising an eyebrow, his hands frozen where the padded armor meets a zipper. His eyes, long-since closed, open halfway to look up at you, lazy, semi-hidden baby blues behind a mask and a somewhat confused frown. “Not up to it tonight?” He asks, understanding, pulling away and running his fingers through the sweat-stuck hairs at the nape of your neck. 

“No- I’m… I’m good. Just-” You pause when he leans down to you, nudging noses with you. Needing the contact for the moment. You feel silly, but- “Could you keep the costume on?” Your voice is quiet- shy, almost. And this is new, unfamiliar territory with Dick- you can’t help but feel nervous. Especially when he usually dictated the terms on nights like these.

One of his eyebrows remains raised, but his hands pull away from the zipper. He leans forward to kiss down the slope of your left cheekbone, down to your lips. “I get it- the friction.” He switches positions with you- maneuvers the both of you so he’s the one leaning against the bed. He hops up, bring you with him, and you blush when you fall into an open straddle on his lap. “All good?” His fingers move up and down your sides, having moved down from your neck. 

He goes to peel off the mask and resume where you’d both left off, but feels your hand on his again. You’re still flushed. “And the mask, too?” Quieter. “Please?”

He freezes, thumb underneath the edge of the mask, before he puts his hands down, his mouth moving in a way that you can’t tell whether he’s going to smile or frown. “It’s not enough to have Dick Grayson in your bed, huh?” His strong grasp around your back, pulling you closer to him- less of an embrace, more of a _hug_. “You have to have Nightwing, too?”

“I like Dick Grayson _in_ the Nightwing suit.” You run your hands up his arm muscles, so clearly defined in the spandex. You pull him down for a kiss by his chest plate, if only to reinforce the statement. “You really don’t mind?”

“It’s gonna be a pain to clean but, really?” Dick’s hands low on your hips, a slow roll of his hips. You want to ignore how devastatingly handsome he looks when he groans then- there must’ve been something about the mask that highlighted his cheekbones. “This is usually the part where I wake up.”

-

Telling Dick you liked him in the costume might’ve been too much. It wasn’t that he ever picked on you or that he cracked jokes about it. 

He just stopped immediately taking his costume off when he got home. Instead, riding in on an adrenaline high and knowing that you liked the fit of his costume, he’d crawl into your shared bed and, if you were awake, share a few kisses that were always on you to escalate. 

Now that he knows you like the costume, he’s eating it up.

He comes home early enough one night for you to still be awake, leafing through a loaned book, and his grin alone lets you know how happy he is that your schedules lined up. Always with the theatrics, he clears his throat, touching his Adam’s apple. “Dear citizen of Gotham, is there anything I can do for you this fine night?” You feel like there might’ve been a silent ‘k’ in ‘night’, but you don’t mention it, putting your book to the side, affecting a long-suffering sigh. 

“Oh, Nightwing, it’s just _terrible_.” You kick your leg up in the air with dramatic flair, and his gaze follows the curve of your thigh down to your calves. “You see, here I am, all by my lonesome, while my boyfriend goes  _gallivanting_  around Gotham. Who could _possibly_  save me from this cold and empty bed?”

Dick starts to move closer to you at a predator’s pace, slow and slinking, until you can smell the mint he must’ve popped in before coming into your room. Thoughtful. “I think I might know a guy that can help.” His gloved fingers (clean only because of the lack of activity tonight) push your hair back at your temples, making sure not to knot your hair. His breath against your lips hitches as he chuckles a little. “The guy is me, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, no, that was perfectly understandable.” And he chuckles again, sitting on the bedside and tilting his head into a kiss. He smells like laundry-scented deodorant, and you can taste the cherry chapstick on his lips. He inhales sharply when you lick his bottom lip, both hands wrapping around your waist to pick you up and set you on his lap. 

The brief breakaway in order to get situated is rectified when you take his bottom lip in between your teeth and gently tug. Behind the mask, his eyes go half-lidded, his head tilting closer to you until his top lip brushes your’s and you let go. This kiss is fast but calculated- Dick’s brain can barely keep up with the muscle memory of how you like to kiss and be kissed. 

You lay back and he leans over you- you can see the blue fingerstripes running up his arms in your peripheral view. You grin and, with both hands parallel, trace up them until you reach his shoulders, resting your fingers together at the base of his neck. He shivers and, leaning down, runs the edges of his teeth down the side of your neck, fingers flexing on your waist. He clears his throat and, in his best attempt at his Nightwing voice again, “Is this better?” but his voice cracks in the middle, feeling your knee come up to graze his crotch. 

He’s so hard that you have to wonder who gets the most out of this scenario- you or him. You give him a long, drawn-out moan in his ear, “My hero.” His elbows buckle slightly, and his nose knocks against your’s in a way that lets you know he definitely didn’t plan it. Dick grunts, righting himself, trying to pace his kisses out and not betray his faster breathing. 

It doesn’t help that he can feel you gripping his neck through the suit. 

His hips snap down and forward the second you wrap your calves around his waist- more reflex than planned. If your resounding groan is any indication, though, it was in the right direction, so he repeats the motion, until he has a panting, shivering pattern- straining with the effort of his self control. It’s on his fourth thrust that his silence breaks, letting out a distorted version of your name. 

You’ve never told Dick that these little sessions never really got you off the way it got him- they’re a turn-on, and a pleasant surprise before bed, but you need a little more to get you all the way there.

But Dick? Dick _falls apart,_ dropping his support to his elbows on either side of your head, his head falling to the crook of your neck. (”I like to listen to your heart beat.” He’d admitted once, somewhat guiltily, as if it were a strange thing to do.) His words become babbling, all of that silver tongue and wit falling away to open-mouthed moans and ‘ _babe’_ over and over by your ear. He comes into his compression shorts (and always regrets it in the morning when he has to wash them), his fingers shock-still on your waist.

Post orgasm, he melts onto you, nose nudging the line of your jaw, lips feeling a little numb as he messily kisses you. “’M really trying to think of something _Nightwing_ to say,” He yawns, the adrenaline fading. “But I’m struggling- sorry. I’m gonna just- just-” 

He rolls off of you and peels the mask off, revealing drooping eyelids and hazy eyes. He lifts the corner of the mattress to jam it under there, to be dealt with in the morning, and starts stepping out of his costume. He grimaces in your general direction before peeling off his under-armor, moving to rummage in the wardrobe for a pair of boxers. The outer suit is discarded on the floor (under another pair of clothes) and his soiled underwear goes _swish_  into the hamper as he underhand-throws it. 

When he climbs back into bed, his arms wrapping around you, you nod off quickly, the warm coil of passion in the pit of your stomach.


End file.
